The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne
The Just Good Clean Fun version of Indiscreet
Kasey Michaels
“Her ability to imbue total freshness into a strict genre is nothing short of remarkable. It is no wonder that she is everyone's favorite.”
— Romantic Times
“Combining wacky characters and hilarious situations with lots of romance is what author Kasey Michaels does best. Don't miss out.”
— Romantic Times
Electronic Edition Copyright 2017: Kathryn A. Seidick
E-Book published by Kathryn A. Seidick at Smashwords, 2017
Cover art by Tammy Seidick Design,
EBook Design by A Thirsty Mind Book Design, 2017
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author.
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Table of Contents
Titles by Kasey Michaels
Reader Letter
Prologue
Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Book Two
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Titles by Kasey Michaels
Meet Kasey Michaels
Dedication
To Maggie Osborne, who lifts my heart; to Jill Churchill, who teaches me how to be a grown-up; to Jasmine Cresswell, who knows what real life is;
and to Marianne Shock, who sees my dreams and takes them higher.
Titles by Kasey Michaels
“Alphabet” Regency Romances
The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane
The Playful Lady Penelope
The Haunted Miss Hampshire
The Wagered Miss Winslow
The Belligerent Miss Boynton
The Lurid Lady Lockport
The Rambunctious Lady Royston
The Mischievous Miss Murphy
Moonlight Masquerade
A Difficult Disguise
The Savage Miss Saxon
The Somerville Farce
Nine Brides and One Witch: A Regency Novella Duo
Historical Regency Romances
A Masquerade in the Moonlight (Enterprising Ladies)
Indiscreet (Enterprising Ladies)
Escapade (Enterprising Ladies)
The Legacy of the Rose
Come Near Me
Out of the Blue (A Time Travel)
Waiting for You (Love in the Regency, Book 1)
Someone to Love (Love in the Regency, Book 2)
Then Comes Marriage (Love in the Regency, Book 3)
Just Good Clean Fun Regency Romances
The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne;
The Just Good Clean Fun version of Indiscreet
The Bedeviled Viscount Brockton;
The Just Good Clean Fun version of Escapade
The Dangerous Mister Donovan;
The Just Good Clean Fun version of A Masquerade in the Moonlight
Contemporary Romances
Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You (D&S Security Series)
Too Good To Be True (D&S Security Series)
Love To Love You Baby (The Brothers Trehan Series)
Be My Baby Tonight (The Brothers Trehan Series)
This Must Be Love (Summer Lovin’ Series)
This Can’t Be Love (Summer Lovin’ Series)
Stuck in Shangri-La (The Trouble With Men Series)
Everything’s Coming Up Rosie (The Trouble With Men Series)
Find Kasey’s books here!
Dear Readers,
Indiscreet has, according to reviewers and readers, one of the funniest Prologues in fiction. Even I still giggle a bit when I think of it!
But there's a serious side to this romantic farce; two people who think they know who they are, what they want ... and then get smacked in the face with the realization that life doesn't always fit into neat little boxes.
As I said, I had a grand time writing Indiscreet, and revisiting the book to prepare it for its “Just good, clean fun” version, The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne, delighted me all over again. It's a good rainy-day-and-I-feel-blah-and-need-to-laugh book — and now it’s safe to pass on to those who prefer their characters to close the bedroom door to give them some privacy.
Fondly,
Kasey
If we believe our logicians, man is distinguished
from all other creatures by the faculty of laughter.
— Joseph Addison
Prologue
Once upon a time...
An apology for the Devil:
It must be remembered
that we have only heard
one side of the case.
God has written all the books.
— Samuel Butler
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee!
— Sarah F. Adams
If there existed anything more stultifyingly dull than one of Lady Buxley’s house parties, that gloomy event had not yet been invented. Being herded through drafty portrait halls to admire some deservedly deceased Buxley relatives, being forced to participate in pantomimes, and tame-stakes card parties drove Lady Buxley’s guests to inventiveness. And the inventiveness of her guests, meant to alleviate their nearly mortal pain of boredom, was anything but ordinary.
Sir Harry had commandeered a prodigious collection of slim wooden toothpicks with high hopes of building a miniature Saint Paul’s. He eventually settled on a less lofty aspiration, the finished project much more closely resembling the new King’s stables at Brighton. Everyone admired the creation mightily anyway—so great was their boredom—until one of Lord Buxley’s dratted hounds bounded into the morning room, batted his tail about like Joshua’s trumpet, and brought the toothpick walls tumbling down.
Lady Beechum had begun writing a wildly romantic novel peopled with beautiful maidens in dire peril and the handsome knights who rescued them. She spent a full afternoon scribbling notes for a tome that had a lot to do with her wishes and dreams, and very little to do with either her reflection in her mirror or the estimable, and quite abdominally expanded Lord Beechum.
Baron Bader had ferreted out a hidey-hole on the third floor, just behind the family chapel. He’d proceeded to outfit the small, windowless room with a table and chairs, candles, several decks of cards, and a goodly supply of port and cigars. He had then cleverly peopled this snug den with three fellow guests whose pockets were sufficiently deep as to be interested in playing for five times the tame-stakes Lady Buxley insisted upon. Once all of this was done, the baron clapped a green-leather visor on his head, and announced around the cigar clamped in his teeth: “Stakes, gentlemen?”
Mr. Reginald Stokes had retired to his chamber on only the second day of the party, locked the door behind him, and fallen headfirst into a bottle. There he steadfastly remained for three days running. But then, Reggie had never possessed much of an imagination.
It fell to Lady Buxley’s most esteemed guest—the coup her sister-in-law, the much hated Isobel, could not possibly hope to top—to His Grace himself, Cecil, Eighth Duke of Selbourne, to f
ind his own amusement until the curst rain stopped and he could flee the house party.
His Grace also was not without invention. Oh my, no. And he had a particularly wonderful “invention” in mind.
Her name was Constance Winstead. The Widow Winstead. A small, beautifully rounded (especially in the heels) creature possessed of the brightest smile, the greatest wit, the most delicious disposition—and the most incredible bosom England had ever been privileged to see. And, if Dame Rumor could be believed, a whacking great lot of England had enjoyed that privilege.
As Constance had been heard to say, widowhood did not, in her opinion, constitute a sentence of celibacy. With a love for her fellowman that, in some quarters, might be considered taken to extremes, Constance had been wooed by and bedded by a great variety of gentlemen. Indeed, her lovers had ranged from scions of the great houses to the powerful in His Royal Majesty’s government—and everyone in between.
These gentlemen all shared two things in common: their attraction to Constance, and healthy fortunes. The former was a given—every man with eyes in his head and a beating heart was attracted to Constance. The latter was of importance to Constance, who had found that amassing jewels, houses, fine furniture, and a comfortable income from the Exchange were the most potent aphrodisiac of them all.
That is not to say that Constance Winstead’s liaisons were motivated by greed. Oh, no. She had a warm, giving, possibly too-trusting heart, and had genuinely adored every last one of her lovers. But, of them all, Cecil had most invaded her heart; so much so that she had been steadfast to him for three long years, their association now having outlasted that of Constance’s with her late husband, Godfrey. The pair had become as close to inseparable as Society allowed, which meant that they were often seen together at Covent Garden and Vauxhall. It also meant that Lady Buxley would have no more included the Widow Winstead in her list of houseguests than she would have clutched a canary feather in each bejeweled paw and attempted to fly from the parapets.
Which brings us back to Lady Buxley’s ongoing house party and His Grace’s inventive turn of mind...
Leaving his wife behind in the music room while Lord Buxley sang off-key and the resurfaced but still three-parts castaway Mr. Reginald Stokes whimpered in a corner, His Grace bounded light-footedly up the two flights of stairs that took him to his bedchamber.
“Rain’s stopped, has it, Reese?” His Grace asked his valet jovially, already stripping off his cravat as he peered hopefully toward the pair of French doors that led onto the narrow balcony outside his chamber. “Good. Good. Now take yourself off, and don’t come back.” He winked, sure his man understood. “I’ll fend for m’self, if you take my meaning?”
Reese moved to assist his master in removing his jacket. “Muggy night, Your Grace,” he said. “I should imagine you’ll want the doors opened, as is your custom? I can return later and take care of all the particulars. You have the headache, Your Grace? Is that why you’re retiring so early? I can mix you up some laudanum, Your Grace, if that’s—”
The duke turned and heavily laid his hands on the conscientious valet’s shoulders. “Reese,” he intoned solemnly, “you’re a good man. You’re even a fine man. A veritable treasure. I’m blessed to have you, truly I am. But if you don’t go away right now, and much as it would pain me, I’m going to have to strangle you where you stand.”
His eyes wide in his head, Reese backed halfway out of the room, turned, and ran like a rabbit.
His Grace checked the time on the mantel clock against that of his pocket watch, then stripped out of his shirt and slipped his arms into a maroon silk banyan, tying the robe tightly at his still trim waist. He paused in front of a cheval glass to inspect his appearance, satisfied to see that he still looked quite dashing, even as he yearly nudged closer to sixty than he cared to remember.
And then he smiled, and smartly saluted his reflection. It was time.
Going to the burled cabinet in the corner, he withdrew a most fantastic invention he’d paid a stable hand handsomely to fashion for him—a compilation of two tremendous lengths of stout rope with a wide, leather strip tied midway between the two ends. When these rope ends were secured to the stone balcony and the contraption lowered over the railing, it hung nearly down to the ground, greatly resembling a country swing.
Which was exactly Constance’s observation when she came creeping out of the bushes. Sitting her diminutive, perfect, pocket-Venus body on the wide leather strap, she declared, “Oh, Cesse, a swing! How very clever of you! How very much I adore you!”
“Yes, it is clever, my little dove, and I adore you as well,” he responded, groaning a bit as Constance’s slight weight tugged at his arms. “But softly, my dove, softly. It wouldn’t do to have the whole household down on us.”
She peered up at him from a distance of thirty or more feet. At the moment, it looked to be closer to sixty feet to His Grace, who had once thought this such a jolly, smashing idea but who was now having second thoughts. Her smiling face was caught by moonlight, and he watched in dismay as she gave her legs a small kick, setting the rope to swinging. “Lift me up, my sweet knight, and I will whisper most discreetly in your ear. Amongst other pleasantries I’ve been contemplating whilst cowering in yon bushes. None of them at all discreet, may I add.”
“For the love of Heaven, Connie,” he warned in a whispered shout—not an easy accomplishment, especially when one was doing one’s best to conserve one’s breath. “This ain’t a country fair and I ain’t a twenty-year-old buck. Have a care with that swinging or we’ll both be in the basket.”
“La, Sir Knight, do not say you are no longer up to the adventure,” Constance chided. Smiling at him, she lay back until she was nearly horizontal, her hands tight on the rope as he slowly, jerkily, began reeling her in like a prize fish.
If Constance insisted upon acting the silly miss on a swing hanging from a mighty oak branch, she was bound to be in for a major disappointment. Although he had securely tied both ends of the rope to the balcony, it was now left to His Grace to do the actual tugging on the ropes so that his ladylove could be hoisted to the balcony. His plan was to grab on to each rope a foot or two below the knots, and yank on them as he walked backward, sliding his sweet Connie closer to the balcony with each step he took away from it—that’s what he would do.
Which was a fine idea. In theory. In practice, the maneuver was bringing a sheen of perspiration to the duke’s brow and a burning pain in his shoulders and arms.
“I’m warning you, Connie—” he said as her musical giggles reached him. Finally, she seemed to understand the seriousness of the affair and sat up, sat very still, awaiting his next move. The duke breathed a silent sigh of relief, then took another deep breath and began walking backward, the ropes wrapped twice around his forearms and held tight in his fists. He staggered across the balcony and into the bedchamber. He backed, slower and slower, across the Aubusson carpet, twice nearly losing his footing.
He pulled and he cursed, and he cursed and he pulled until, at last, just as the back of his knees made contact with the edge of the bed, the dragging weight on the other end of the rope vanished and he went flying backward onto the mattress.
“We did it, we did it, we did it!” Constance trilled a moment later, landing on top of him on the bed. “Oh, Cesse! I love you so much! And I’m so proud of you! Of course, I was also quite wonderful—climbing over the balcony rail all by myself, to become Lady Buxley’s most unexpected guest.”
She pushed rained down kisses on his face and neck, which he appreciated, if she would only move off his still heaving chest. “How long may I stay? Will you keep me in a cupboard, dear Cesse? Will you feed me scraps you’ve pilfered from the dinner table? I’ve brought no clothing, thinking it difficult enough for my dear knight to heft this shameless baggage to the balcony without bringing a stuffed hatbox along on the trip. But it is of no concern to me. I shall wear your banyan, rolling up the sleeves a thousand times, and look most adora
ble as I sit in my corner, nibbling stale crusts. Oh, Cesse!” she exclaimed, “I’ve just had the most grand idea. Let’s make love on that adorable balcony! Our balcony. We haven’t done anything silly in far too long. The stars are bright, and the moon is full—shining down on the wet flagstones after this horrible day of rain.”
“Make—make love on the balcony?” His Grace gasped out, for what air that had remained in his lungs after his exertions had been crushed from his body by Constance’s enthusiastic greeting. His ears were ringing, a few stars were circling just above his head, and he had the nagging suspicion he was no longer quite as young and hearty as he believed himself to be. “But, Connie—sweet love, little princess—just think about it a moment. We’re already in bed. So much more convenient this way, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, pooh on this silly bed. I want to make love in the moonlight, Cesse. Do you remember the night we frolicked outside that lovely inn near Epson? We rolled over and over in the grass like children—”
“We damn near rolled into a curst cesspit, the pair of us, mad fools that we were,” His Grace put in, wincing at the memory. Then he brightened, smiling up at the canopy over the bed. “Although I will admit I enjoyed sneaking about in the Tower last spring while m’wife wandered off to admire some broken statuary. Adds a dollop of excitement to the thing, I agree. I give up, Connie. What was that you were saying about the balcony?”
“Oh, Cesse, how I do love you!” Constance giggled. She bent and gave his chin quick, nipping kiss, then bounded for the narrow balcony, her now unbound hair catching the glow from the moon as she turned to drape her cloak over the wide stone railing.
“I’m probably going to Hell for what I’m about to do,” His Grace muttered under his breath as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. “But I won’t regret a moment of it either, by damn!”
“Come, come, my darling,” Constance called to him as she daringly seated herself on the cloak, twining her lower legs behind two of the fat stone balustrades. She braced her palms against the railing on each side of her as she sat, looking as if suspended in air above the black as night cloak. “Let us be free and wild, Cesse, like mad creatures of the night!” She lifted her arms for a moment, daring the laws of balance, of gravity. Sir Isaac Newton, the duke thought randomly, would have been amazed, dumbfounded. Why, the learned fellow would have taken a single look at Constance and promptly forgotten to write down his stupid theories (and been a happier man for it).
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